Then it was quiet, the whimpers, screams, whispers, and cries were carried into the two buildings on either side of their landing platform.
Rugrat rubbed his face, finding his helmet there. He unclipped it as he stepped through what had been the cabin wall and onto the sides. New fresh gurneys, assistants, and medics moved into position with grim expressions.
He pulled his helmet off, feeling the cool wind against his face. He took a breath as another kestrel came in to land one bay over. Its sides peeled open, revealing more cots and samples of mangled meat and broken bone.
“All right! Let’s get out of the way,” Rugrat said.
The able-bodied soldiers followed him and the sergeants down a ramp to the ground. Their kestrel was released, its cabin sealing back together as the chief moved them out of the way before taking to the skies once again. The cabin was still threading itself back together as he banked and headed out beyond Vuzgal’s walls.
Rugrat reached the bottom of the ramp. Another kestrel streamed in filled with wounded.
We weren’t the only ones hit.
He raised his hand to rub his face, letting the fatigue born of emotion rather than stamina wash over him for a second.
“We’re going to head to our barracks,” the gunnery sergeant said, looking decades older as his adrenaline crashed.
“Good work, all of you.” Rugrat nodded at the sergeants and then the corporals behind them.
“We got them here, even if there is only a thread of life left in them. We’ve got the best damn healers in the Fourth Realm working on them. You did Alva proud today.” Rugrat patted the man on the shoulder and pressed his lips together, nodding. He let out a breath and released the man. “Stay safe.”
With that, he turned and headed toward the nearest teleportation formation that could get him to the under-city’s command center.
Lord Chonglu was studying the maps on a wall of the command center when Rugrat walked in. Rugrat secured his helmet to his vest and scanned the room with a hard eye before he rested his hands on the edge of the map. His hands were clean, but his face was covered in soot and dirt. There was a faint line of an already healed cut on his cheek. Unmistakable stains on his clothes were covered in dirt that had clumped to the blood.
He took a look at the evolving details, then moved to the main map where Domonos stood. He focused on several wide paths that spread from three locations in the north and two in the south.
“Teleportation formations,” Domonos spat out. “Suggest: We were so focused on hammering them with attacks we stopped watching the mountains.”
“What’s done is done, Domonos.” The finality in Rugrat’s voice closed Domonos’ mouth. “This is war. We can’t control everything.” Rugrat’s words were quieter, spoken to the table, and spread to everyone’s ears. He looked at Domonos directly. “What’s our next move, Colonel?”
Domonos tilted his head slightly. The muscles of his jaw outlined, tensing, bringing himself back under control.
“If they have teleportation formations, their supply and support are secure. They’ve gained the momentum and are charging. Kestrels are bringing back the wounded and artillery platoons in proximity to the enemy’s forces. We’re in the process of withdrawing all artillery and pressed artillery units from the field.”
“What of the sparrows?” Rugrat asked.
“They are observing the enemy.”
Chonglu saw it happen as Rugrat looked at the advancing spears of sects.
Domonos’ eyes tightened and then opened.
“They’re in the valley, using spells to tear apart our traps and clear the ground, but the terrain isn’t flat.” Domonos’ words started slow, turning into a waterfall. “The sparrows don’t need to come in low to hit them. They can do that from up high. The enemy will have two choices: to keep sending their aerial units after our artillery, or to return to fight our sparrows.”
“Aerial units are rare in the sects, right?” Rugrat asked.
“Yes, to have a force of them is a massive expense. They are useful, but there are so many ways they can be killed,” Domonos said.
Acting instead of reacting.
He grimaced and opened his mouth only to close it again, chewing on his own thoughts.
“I hate feeling like we’re letting them cross the valley unmolested. If we hit them with mortars, we might kill a few dozen, but it won’t do much more than waste ammunition and leave our people tired. We’ll have to have kestrels on station to move the artillery out. If we have them putting traps all over the place, the spells they’re using to clear a path will destroy or throw them away.”
“Feels wrong, but got to do what’s right,” Rugrat said.
“Extract everyone in the field. Get them ready in their defensive positions. The sparrows and kestrels will be our way of attack. Once the enemy gets in close, we’ll recall them as well. The enemy aerial forces will all be gathered, making it easier to overwhelm and counterattack our own aerial forces.”
Domonos tapped on the surface of the map.
“We’ll do that then. Zukal, contact Kanoa with new orders.”
Rugrat caught Chonglu’s eye and gestured to a corner of the command center.
“Sir?” Chonglu asked. He could smell the earthy dirt and wood mixed with smoke and tang of blood.
“How many dead and wounded?” Rugrat pitched his voice low enough that none but Chonglu could hear.
“Twenty-nine dead, three hundred and fifty-three wounded at last count.”
Rugrat exhaled through his nose, bobbing his head. Pain cut across his features before he steeled himself again. It was better than he had hoped, which hurt harder, thinking that having some die was somehow better.
“Our soldiers’ cultivation, gear and training kept our wounded high, but the deaths low,” Chonglu pressed. He must have seen Rugrat’s pain.
Rugrat gave him a forced smile and a nod of thanks. His eyes unfocused as he thought. “Evacuate anyone non-essential to the city’s defense. Any word from the traders?”
“They’re pissed off. The different sects are offering up elders to sign truth contracts that say they’re not a part of this. The Stone Fist Sect is posturing. I think the entire sect will use this as an opportunity to enter the conflict. Elan is listening in.”
“And the sects with this?” Rugrat gestured at the map.
“More will support them. There are others that are interested in an alliance with us. Their offers are dwindling with time.”
“They want a piece of our city without paying too high a price in blood.” Rugrat showed the decades of fighting on his face. “The second defense of Vuzgal. At least we’ve had time to prepare. The first time, we had less than a hundred people.”
36
The Butcher’s Bill
Erik watched as mages from Tiger Regiment solemnly carved out each letter on the polished black stone.
They cleaned the smooth lines.
The carver placed his hand on the fresh raw names that had not worn away with time, adding to those that had been there since the founding of Alva.
People stood in their own groups. Some cried, others were solemn while children looked around, confused by the significance of those names and the people they represented.
Mothers, fathers, sons and daughters, sisters, and brothers. Alvans. That gave their lives to defend Vuzgal.
Erik tightened his hand on Momma Rodriguez’s shoulder as she shuddered; tears covered her cheeks. He looked at the mana gathering formation in the sky. It gathered strength as a lieutenant marched out and stood in front of the wall.
“Ro-ll, Call!” His voice rang clear and true across the fields.
Tears burned the edges of Erik’s vision as he gritted his jaw and faced the wall head-on. Momma Rodriguez squeezed his hand on her shoulder, giving him strength.
“Sergeant Alvarez!”
A choked sob came from within the park. No one turned to look, their eyes fixed on the stone.
&nbs
p; “Sergeant Marcio Alvarez!”
Silence greeted the lieutenant waiting for an answer.
“Corporal Guiying. Corporal Guo Guiying.”
The name sounded off the wall and across those that filled the park.
“Lieutenant Couto! Lieutenant Elvin Couto.”
A young woman holding a baby in her arms and her daughter’s hand bent as she choked on her tears.
“Corporal Celeste Lopez. Corporal Celeste Lopez.”
Thirty-two more names were called out, but silence greeted the lieutenant.
“To the fallen!”
Erik and the other military members straightened.
“Salute!”
Hands snapped across chests throughout the park before slowly lowering.
The lieutenant’s arms returned to his sides. He turned to face his audience, looking above them. “You may now approach the wall. Please move from the left to the right!” His voice caught slightly as he turned to the side and marched away from the wall.
The families walked up to the black stone wall carved with gold names, the names of their loved ones.
Erik and Momma Rodriguez slowly walked away, just two more among the masses that had come to pay their respects. The special team kept their distance so as to not draw attention.
Doesn’t matter if you have a body like divine iron, or a Solid Mana Core of Mist. None of it is enough to armor against loss.
Erik looked back at the stone wall, looking at those names.
Storbon looked at Erik with a grim expression.
“You sure this is necessary?” Yuli asked him.
“Create as many revival potions in an hour as he would produce in a day and increase his cultivation. You think you can stop him?” Storbon smirked.
Yuli said nothing more as they watched their dungeon lord. He stood in front of a mana cultivation pod. There were several in the room; most of them were already under use. Medics walked among them, checking on the occupants, members of the Alva Military.
Erik had more machines around his pod. Two lines ran from his arms, pumping blood into the large blood bags on either side.
He had another tube taped to his mouth like a rebreather.
He swallowed the sludge in the line and vat behind him.
“Good feed. Doesn’t taste the best, though,” Erik joked, getting a weak smile.
It wasn’t just food; it contained ingredients half concocted together for him to suck in and consume, increasing the power of his blood and allowing him to produce more.
Erik stepped back into the pod. Medics made sure that the tubes wouldn’t get snagged before he was lowered backward.
The pod turned into a table, locking into place as the formations activated.
“Ready?” Julilah asked, standing at the formation panel.
“Ready,” Jen said.
“Good to go!” Erik got around his tube.
He caught Storbon’s eye and nodded to him before closing his eyelids.
“Increasing the mana density,” Julilah said.
She and Jen worked together, increasing the mana density, and quietly returned to the room. Storbon and his team moved to the chairs provided.
Time sped up as Jen and Julilah saw to other work, Jen visiting occasionally to check on him. Medics changed the blood bags as they filled up. Soldiers entered and left while Erik lay there drawing in the impure mana. He only talked to say when to change to a different element.
Occasionally, he would slurp from his concoction, keeping his body supplied with all he needed.
Storbon could feel Erik changing, rapidly regaining strength, his metal tempering stats no longer just numbers. What was the toll on his body and mind to take so long to heal?
Erik’s domain grew, increasing the mana that he drew in. Mana mist hid him from view. Only the slurping and fresh blood bags that started filling the instant they were connected revealed that there was someone beneath it.
Hours turned into a day and then two. Storbon and his team slept in the mana cultivation pods, increasing their own cultivation as they too donated blood enhanced with concoctions.
On the second day, a soldier not on the special teams wanted to get his blood drawn.
“Look, I have Body Like Iron. It isn’t Body Like Sky Iron, but if it could help, I don’t need it,” the soldier said to the medic.
“Okay,” the medic agreed. While it would be weaker, it was still as strong as some of their stamina and healing potions.
Alchemists started to bring in vats of the sludge for people to eat while they started their cultivations and were bled.
It was limited to those with Body Like Iron and higher, but everyone wanted to help. Erik remained oblivious, drinking in mana, growing his elemental core and mana core.
37
Construction
“Well, the devil makes use of idle hands, but when devilish minds are mixed with industrious hands…” Rugrat shivered, peering into the deep pits below. The light caught sharpened metal and stone in the ground below.
He rode on George. Han Wu and his people seemed to have been permanently attached as his security detail. They flew around him, along with several undead aerial mages.
Matt moved from behind Rugrat, using his sound transmission device instead of fighting the rushing air. “The reserves have been working for close to three days, pretty much since they showed up. We put the undead put to work as well. We have three areas.”
Matt pointed at the intersection where east and west roads turned south toward Vuzgal. “We have area one from the road circling to where the forest meets the mountain range on either side. A two-kilometer, sometimes wider, band of mud fields and traps. We call it the soup dash, or The Soup for short. Area two extends five and a half kilometers from the forward bunkers and extends out of the valley.”
Rugrat didn’t have to follow his finger to notice the dark, almost polished stone that cut lines in the ground, going from thin and annoying to large and nearly a hundred meters apart. They lined up row upon row like a kid had been drawing with a pencil and then picked up a fat marker.
“Trenches, potholes of all kinds, every protrusion sharpened and covered in poison. We call it Deadman’s Fields.”
“Got it.” George banked, bringing the last area into greater view.
“Finally, Scarecrow’s Hill.” Matt waved in the direction of the last area. Squads dotted the ground, instructing the undead and weaving their concertina wire across their imaginative traps. They were moving back toward Vuzgal, turning the ground into a deadly landscape.
“Barbed wire, traps, trenches, wandering undead attack mages underneath, poison, and anything else our people thought to add.”
“The trenches, the mud, the barbed wire; no way a mana barrier is going to cover people through all that.”
Matt remained silent.
“When will people get in range of our guns?”
“Area three, Scarecrow. We can hit them with mortars and spells out in the soup.”
“And we aren’t freeing up any other weapons right now. What about the other weapon systems?”
“Bolt rifles are good sub-one kilometer. The semi-autos and full autos, if they’re mounted, good out to four and a half kilometers.”
“So, into Deadman’s. What about the guns in the valley pillboxes?” Rugrat pointed to the squat buildings that lined the sloping valley, bowing out toward the defensive fields around the main gate and outer wall.
“Deadman’s and Soup’s border is at five and a half kilometers from the main gate. They’re up higher yes, but they’re farther back.” Matt sounded unsure.
“Maybe not as accurate as we want. Have a few guns working together. Reach the border, possibly,” Rugrat surmised. “Mounted grenade launchers will get right into Scarecrow, close and dirty. Railguns give accurate fire while shoulder-mounted for one and a half klicks.” He sucked on his lip. “Mana cannons have a ten-kilometer range, so they’ll cover all zones, same as the mortars. The Artille
ry Cannons can out and smack anything fifty klicks out.”
Rugrat looked at the polished stone that made up a good chunk of Deadman’s and covered Scarecrow.
“Solid, dungeon-hardened stone.” He could imagine the explosive rounds striking it, sending shrapnel in every direction. “Gonna be honest, Matt. I’m fucking puckered up tighter than the new fish on the block who dropped his soap in the prison shower, looking at this.”
“That’s a fucking image.”
“Got a creative imagination.” George turned lazily from the defenses, making it easy for the security detail to follow them. “Well, we have a day, maybe two, until the sects show up. A good army knows how to fight. A terrifying enemy knows how to prepare,” Rugrat said into the wind as George straightened out, flying them back toward Vuzgal nestled between its two valleys.
38
Head-On
Master Teacher Medina felt the chill of the night air as he checked the teleportation formation. It had been two days since the united sect’s armies had redeployed and chased the Vuzgalians and their whistling weapons away.
He looked into the darkness, catching his disciples’ eyes. Without a word, he drew out an earth mana stone. Threads extended from it lit up his hands and face, turning into smoky tendrils that touched the teleportation formation. The metal glowed as tendrils of greater density flowed into the formation. Parts of the stone dissolved into sand, carried away by the wind as the mana poured along the teleportation formation’s runes.
Around him, several disciples hidden in the night’s darkness were illuminated by their mana stones and the formations they powered.
Spells ignited as trees collapsed, clearing the area as several meticulously placed mana barrier formations activated.
Mana flowed through the runes of Medina’s teleportation formation like water filling words written in sand.
Seventh Realm Part 1: A LitRPG Fantasy series (The Ten Realms Book 8) Page 41
